Speech to Harvard Graduating Class the Diamond in the Dung Heap

I would think, of all the fine institutions of higher learning in the U.S., the graduating class at Harvard would rate a top-notch commencement speaker. I won’t say who it was, if you’re interested and tech savvy you’ll find him. I watched, and listened, at times incredulous at others times embarrassed for him. But when all was said and done I was able to glean one sentence from his speech to that illustrious crowd that I found of any value whatsoever. It was a piece of advice that by his own admission he felt qualified to give.

CUT A HOLE IN THE BOX

There it is. At first glance you’re probably thinking, Huh? And you didn’t even hear the absolute rubbish that preceded it! But that sentence worked on me, chirped at me in the half-awake moments of morning, nagged at me in the nodding-off moments at night. And I realized that, in spite of himself, that speaker had given me something of worthwhile brilliance to ponder.

Think outside the box. We’ve all heard that one and we know what it means. But what if ‘the box’ represents norms, standards, social and familial expectations, rules, guidelines, in short, expected and accepted behavior? And what if cutting a hole in the box allows anyone inside to see, taste, hear, and entertain the option of admitting unfamiliar information into his/her experience? That would be a good thing, right?

I tried to work with that, to make it work for me. Then suddenly I recognized the elephant in the room…the monster under the bed. No wonder I couldn’t make it fit. I exist completely outside ‘the box.’ The choices I have made for my life at this particular time do not align with norms, expectations, or accepted behavior for someone of my age and circumstance. But (and I have the utmost gratitude for this) the hole I have cut in ‘the box’ allows me to crawl inside once-in-awhile for love, support, comfort and reassurance that even though I am unconventional, I am still a valid part of the structure that made me who I am.

So thank you, you who will remain nameless until someone finds you online with the information I have provided. You made me think. You made me sort through the dung heap to extract the diamond. Aren’t you the cat’s pajamas.

Kintamani, Mt. Batur, and the ride of my life!

Kintamani. Even the name sounds magical, like Shangri-La, or Katmandu. Getting there was equally as perilous, or so it seemed on the back of Ketut’s motorbike. Kintamani is a village high on Mt. Batur overlooking a lake of the same name. We passed these spectacular terraced rice fields on the way.

Rice terraces

Farming the mountainside

The elevation of Mt. Batur is 5,600 ft., and the road up has the tightest switchbacks I’ve seen this side of Norway! As it happened, the road down did too. I so wanted to take a photo of the impossible curves but stopping would have meant instant death, and letting go of my stranglehold on Ketut to grab my camera and shoot from the back of the bike…well…that wasn’t gonna happen! I think I held my breath for 30 minutes. Then, suddenly, we rounded a curve and there it was!

Lake Batur

A flat, straight stretch of road in Kintamani

Behind me is a vast desert of lava from the eruption of Mt. Batur. At the left is a tomato garden. There are red onions, cabbages, and tomatoes in plots nestled among the outcroppings of volcanic rock.

There are two peaks, Mt. Batur and Mt. Abang, and between them is the caldera, the flat open land that resulted after a major eruption. The ground is jagged and lumpy where the bubbling, flowing lava solidified. It more closely resembles desert than tropical island! Bali has many faces.

Hot Springs

One of the advantages of an active volcano in your back yard is the occasional fissure in the earth that allows hot water to bubble out. There is a charge of 150,000 Rp or about $16 to use these pools.

Hot pools of varying different temperatures by Lake Batur.

There were three women in the far pool and while we watched a young man in a sarong served poolside drinks. I felt the water…it was HOT!

The view from the pools.

The sun was out and there was hardly a breeze, but the air up here is much, much cooler than the daily average temperature in Ubud. There were times on the motorbike when my polar fleece would have been a welcome addition!

Leaving Batur and Kintamani…

What a delightful day, and the icing on the cake was meeting Ketut’s parents! They don’t smile for photos, but they laugh and joke constantly the rest of the time.  I do love the Planet Hollywood t-shirt with the sarong!

The one time in my life I felt really really tall!

Then it was time to head back to the curves and swerves for the trip home. Ketut doesn’t drive slowly, but he is careful. I only screamed once. That’s really good for me.

Getting MORE of ALMOST What You Want

I had a craving for young coconut water. I mentioned it to Ketut one day in passing, I wasn’t suggesting or insinuating, I just innocently asked if we ever had young coconut water. “Young coconut?” he asked. “Yes, coconut milk, coconut water…” The conversation ended in that sort of foggy never-never land, a little like the feeling when two socks go into the laundry and only one comes out…! But the following day, sometime mid-morning, Ketut called to me from the garden, “You like young coconut water?” It’s a strange sensation, sort of like I flipped the switch yesterday and the light came on today, startling me in a pleasant way. “Yes,” I said, wondering what he was leading up to. Ketut pointed to a cluster of coconuts in the palm next to him. “I get for you.” Okay, this was good. I grabbed my camera and raced downstairs in time to capture the whole process.

Ketut on his way up the tree

Selecting just the right one

Ah…got it!

Trimming the top and bottom

Poking a hole for the straw…

Hurray! Young coconut water! It doesn’t get fresher than this!

For those who have never tasted young coconut water it is…unusual. There is a slight sweetness, a hint of coconut flavor, and a sense that you are drinking something that is very, very good for you!

So this morning, based on my current success rate, I decided to go out on a limb. About once a week I treat myself to coffee with breakfast. I always regret it because I drink the whole pot and I tolerate caffeine poorly. But it’s just one of those things and it’s only once a week. So this morning I asked for coffee, then said, “And Ketut, do we have milk? Susu?” As is our routine he repeated, “Susu?” I agreed, “Yes, milk, susu, with coffee.” Again, never-never land. A few minutes later I saw him disappear through the gate and head off down the path. I thought nothing of it until he reappeared a few minutes later and called up to me from the garden. He was holding up a little can and asking me if this was okay. “Just a minute,” I called back, grabbed my flip-flops, and ran downstairs. I studied the can and in the jumble of Indonesian komposisi (ingredients) I saw the word creme. Well, maybe in Bali cream comes in a can. Milk would be fine but cream would be absolutely wonderful. “Perfect!” I exclaimed.

I went back to my writing fantasizing about coffee with sugar AND cream. I could already feel the onset of jitters. Pavlov again? But I didn’t care. Pretty soon the soft, “Hallooo,” told me Ketut and my coffee had arrived. “Masuk, Ketut, come in!” The tray laden with half a papaya, toast and peanut butter, and the thick, black Balinese coffee I’m beginning to love made my mouth water. And there is was…the little silver pitcher of…oh, oh…sweetened condensed milk??? Note to self…creme does not mean cream. Once again I was profuse with my thanks and Ketut left beaming. I spooned a glob of the sticky, yellowish goo into my coffee trying not to think about the calorie count. I could take an extra long walk today, I told myself, knowing I wouldn’t. And you know what? It’s good! And there’s 9/10th of a can left in the refrigerator. I could have this in my tea, too.

Mr. and Mrs. D. and The Acceptable Tree

I’ve introduced you to Mr. and Mrs. M. Dove. You know the grim saga of The Naked Tree. You also know that Mr. had proudly presented my Bougainvillea bush as a hopeful nesting site and was promptly put in his place by Mrs. D. I’ve since learned that in dove etiquette, the male is always the one who scouts out potential home sites. Whether or not they suffice is a decision that is exclusively up to the Mrs.

At this point you have probably discerned my fascination with the lifestyle and habits of my busy neighbors. The thing is, perched here in the treetops with them, I am privy to the most intimate details of their lives. It is impossible not to watch, and marvel, and wonder.

The other day I was minding my own business (for a change) when I heard the sound of wings flapping loudly and wildly. It was Mr. Dove. Oh no! What terrible injury has that poor bird sustained. Doves can fly soundlessly from tree to rooftop and soar so softly you would never know they were there if you didn’t look up. So what had happened to my feathered friend. I peered into the branches of The Acceptable Tree home that Mr. and Mrs. now share and where his ungainly flight had terminated. Although he had executed a safe landing, the wild flapping hadn’t stopped, and the leaves and branches were shaking furiously. Trying to be discreet, I peeked cautiously from behind my bamboo shade. I caught a glimpse of the two of them in a sort of dove love dance.  After a few moments they flew off quietly together. Hmmm.

A short while later I heard the uncoordinated flapping again. This time Mr. joined Mrs. on a nearby rooftop. He had more or less landed on her back! There was a flustered moment when the two struggled for balance, but after that Mrs. didn’t seem to mind. It lasted only a few minutes, then they were side by side grooming each other with meticulous care. Since then I’ve heard the crazy flapping many times and it always precedes a visit to a special lady. When there’s no female to impress the flight is soundless.

After consulting Google and Wikipedia I learned that, in warm climates like Bali, mating is pretty much a year-round activity. Doves tend to reproduce about six times a year and that requires a whole lot of flapping and cooing! The soft, soothing coo, I’ve discovered, is a mating call and is exclusive to males. Sometimes Mr. D puffs out his chest feathers, too. They are shameless attention grabbers! But all that flirtation and affection obviously pays off. There is a handsome dove population here in my garden! Like the Balinese, extended family seems to be a valued way of life.

Indonesian on a Stick!

At the Minnesota State Fair you can get almost anything on a stick: deep fried nut rolls on a stick, cheesecake on a stick, eggrolls, chocolate covered jalepeno peppers…need I say more? It is gastronomical suicide…on a stick. But on with the story…

Indonesia is the fourth most populous nation in the world. It is preceded by China, India, and the United States in that order. As a result, Indonesian is one of the most widely spoken languages. But that’s not why I’ve decided to learn it. There’s a quote by Steven Covey, Seek first to understand, then to be understood. It just seems like the right thing to do.

I also have a unique opportunity for immersion. My house helpers, Pasek and Ketut, and my Balinese friends love it that I’m trying to learn. Most Balinese have completed ‘tourism school’ where they are taught English so they can communicate with the hoards swarming over their country. They make it too easy. So now that they know I’m serious they have become devoted task masters. I have all the help I can handle!

There is an Indonesian phrase book, dog-eared and ancient, that was left here by some former resident. I started with that but I have no need for a bus terminal or a shopping mall. The book is of limited value to me. So the other day I strolled to the Ganesha Bookstore and found a sweet Pocket Indonesian Dictionary. I say sweet because it appeals to me aesthetically as well as functionally, and I appreciate that! It is small (pocket) and has a plastic cover (durable) and it’s orange (pretty!)

The dictionary is an immediate improvement, but things aren’t happening fast enough for me. Flash cards. I need flash cards! So today I go in search of recipe cards, or something similar. I want to make my own. My first stop is the convenience store where I remember seeing tape, staples, tablets. No luck with recipe cards there. So I meander across the street to CoCo’s Supermarket. Again, no such thing as recipe cards. Okay. Think outside the box. What will work instead?

My eyes graze over cardboard gift-type boxes, stacks of brown paper cut in perfect 10″ squares, airmail envelopes, popsickle sticks…Stop…back up! What are those? I pick up a package of little flat wooden spoons, the kind that come with the round ice cream cups. Thirty to a package for 42 cents. I toss two packages into my basket along with a bottle of Kecap Manis and one of Kecap Pedas (sweet soy sauce and spicy soy sauce.) I can’t wait to get home and see if my ‘necessity is the mother of invention‘ purchase will work.

My latest invention: Flash Sticks!

Look at that…would you look at that! I had one package done in no time, Indonesian word or phrase on one side and its English meaning on the other. I’m pretty pleased with myself right now! It’s the simple things…

Tadpoles, Caterpillars, and a Naked Tree

There is a lesson here. I’m sure of it. The Tree, rounded and lush, was home to a pair of cooing doves. Many times daily they sought cover in  her protective branches and rustled around copiously completely hidden from prying eyes. Mine.

The Tree

That morning I spied a ladder propped against the trunk. Look closely…it’s there. Being unfamiliar with the species of Tree or the possible nature of her fruit, my first guess assumed harvest. The Tree had produced something delectable that Ketut would gather. I parked myself on the balcony in a position affording the most advantageous view and waited. My patience was rewarded. Ketut climbed the ladder with a wicked-looking curved knife in hand. On his way up he chopped at a few stray branches and sent them crashing through the vegetation below. Next thing I knew, the ladder was below him. He was scaling the trunk and hoisting himself into the thick crown of leaves above him.

Ketut in The Tree

In the next instant he was hacking off branches at an alarming rate. Well, I mused, maybe this is a pruning rather than a harvest. What if the doves have a nest in there? What if he upsets it and they can’t go home? Anxiety was setting in. At the onset I had feigned nonchalance, observing but trying not to be obvious about it. Now I was fully engaged, horrified, not wanting to believe my eyes. Hack, hack, hack. More and more branches crashed through the palms and frangipani below. I had to bite my tongue to keep from shouting Stop! Please stop! Ketut, after all, is the gardener and the garden, after all, is not mine. With each loud whack of the knife and each crashing fall of a branch my heart sank a little deeper into grief. I turned away and busied myself with distractions not wanting to see what I feared.

Later, after all had been silent in the garden for some time, curiosity compelled me. I had to look. Mon Dieu! Butchered! Denuded! The Tree stood naked and grotesque against the sky. This was abominable! I needed an explanation. My thoughts were stormy…Where is he? Where is that Ketut…that butcher! He’d better have a good story because I an not happy.

Naked Tree

I found him, of course. Summoning as much composure as possible I inquired, politely, about the tree. It was for safety, he said. Too much wind, tree fall on house. What about the birds? I needed to know. Was there a nest? Many nest, Ketut smiled, but no egg. He further explained that he was not finished. The whole top of the tree would be cut off but his knife had broken. The whole top of the tree. Then what? I asked. He smiled that angelic smile…Then, one month maybe, new tree!

I’m sensing a theme here…first the frog, now the tree. Death and rebirth. Transformation. For my last visit to Bali I lived at the edge of a rice paddy. I arrived when the new shoots were tender green rows against the muddy earth. I left just before harvest. The paddy was a golden field, ripe, mature, and I had grown as well. This time I live at eye-level with the treetops. My neighbors are the birds. I am in mid-heaven, halfway between the sacred and the mundane. And I know why I’m here. Yes, to rewrite the manuscript…yes, to hold a workshop…but the greater purpose, wrapped all around in this beautiful cocoon of my home, is to liquefy. I’ve already felt the beginning of it. I could be terrified, or I could yield into acceptance. What choice does the caterpillar have? What choice do I?

A lone dove sits on a naked branch of The Tree. One month, little friend, I tell her, one month.

Rumah Kita…way better than “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel!”

If you haven’t seen The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, I highly recommend it. That and four other movies helped me pass the 26 hours en-route to paradise. It is one of those heart-grabbing tales that touches truth with humor and sensitivity. The movie evoked tears and laughter, both in abundance.

And now I’m back! I’m living in the house of my dreams,  in the place of my dreams, doing what I love. (Pinch me!) When I first saw these rooms filled with light from the 8′ windows on three sides, my first thought was If I ever have the chance to rent this house I’d take it in a heartbeat. I inquired and my name was added to the bottom of a long list of “hopefuls.”  In early June, about a month after returning to Minnesota, I found out my name had, by some miracle, risen to the top of that list. I could have the house for 4 months starting mid-July but had to decide in 24 hours. Although I pretended to weigh the pros and cons, the decision had been made months earlier when I first walked through the door.

Here is my 10′ x 25′ balcony overlooking treetops and rooftops.

My breakfast is served here, on the balcony, by Ketut, my ‘house helper.’ Just so you can be completely envious, this house comes with staff. There is a house manager and a house helper. Pasek, the manager, takes care of the financial affairs of the property and shops for food and other necessary supplies. Ketut’s job is to take care of me. He prepares and serves my breakfast, cleans daily, and changes the bed and bath linens every three days. He keeps the house filled with fresh flowers…truly filled…and tends the gardens. When I want tea, or coffee, or a blended fruit drink I simply request it and it appears with Ketut, on a tray, along with another fragrant bouquet. I am already spoiled beyond recovery!

The night I arrived it was approaching 2:45 a.m. and I had told them to expect me between 1 and 1:30 a.m. But I no sooner stepped out of the taxi and Ketut was beside me, all smiles, in his grey hoodie sweatshirt. He hoisted my HEAVY suitcase over his shoulder and off we went, winding down the narrow path that leads to Rumah Kita, my beautiful new home. As I turned in at the gate I glanced up. The upstairs shined like a beacon. We walked up the staircase to the private entrance and opened the door. Every light in the house was on, the white tile floors were spotless and glistening. And flowers…the perfume of frangipani and blooms of unknown species wrapped me in fragrance and welcomed me in.

Ketut made sure I was comfortable, told me he would see me in the morning, and left me to unpack. Yes, I’d been up for about 28 hours straight by then, but there is something about unpacking that grounds me. When I finally peeled back the blue quilted comforter on the bed it was approaching 4 a.m. But all I could do was gaze in awe out the windows at shadowy palms and a sky full of stars and laugh and laugh and laugh. I was home.

As promised, Ketut appeared in the garden below about 7:30 (sunrise is 6:30 and the roosters and I were up at the crack of dawn!) “Would you like your breakfast?” he called up to me. My stomach had been rumbling for several hours by then…”Yes! Please!” He flashed a big smile…”What would you like?” Uh oh! I didn’t realize I might have options…”What are my choices?” I asked. Come to find out, I just have to let him know and I can have anything I want. I settled on fruit, omelet, and coffee, took my journal out to the balcony, and within moments breakfast (and more flowers) appeared before me.

I dined in sheer bliss listening to the Bali morning noises that I love. The house is near the river and overlooks banana palms, coconut palms, and a profusion of flowering bushes and trees. Some of the sounds are different from the chorus of the rice paddies that had become so familiar during my last stay. I love them all!

And I am intrigued by what I am beginning to call the ‘bliss factor.’ There have been times when there were one or two aspects of my life that brought me happiness. I learned to focus on those and if you asked, I would have told you that I was happy. There have been times of tremendous stress and pain but still there was happiness.  Here I experience something else. When I step off the plane and feel the warm softness of the air, see the brown faces and white smiles, my heart leaps into my throat. Tears well in my eyes. I feel a blinding shock of joy explode in my heart. It is a sensation I’ve never experienced anywhere else. I can only call it bliss. Some people meditate for years to achieve this altered state. I simply step off the plane.

From the edge of my balcony….Bali night.

Viking Spirit, Gypsy Soul

I was born on Grandpa’s birthday. We had a bond. Maybe because I was the only one who would play checkers with him. Or maybe it was because I inherited his adventure-loving Viking genes. I wish I could thank him for that.

At 18 years old he boarded a ship bound for America to make a life for himself in the New Country. Two years later he sailed back and married his sweetheart. Several months after that, pregnant with their first of twelve children, Rachael and Bendik said goodby to family and left Norway behind.

But it wasn’t just Grandpa who loved adventure. Every summer Dad took a month off and loaded the station wagon. He invented a special “topper” that rode on the roof and held the tent, pots, pans, sleeping bags, clothing, his guitar and my ukelele. It was one of those vehicles that had three seats and one of them faced the back window. My brother always sat back there. My sister alternated between that seat and the middle where I was. I never could ride backward without extreme consequences to my digestive tract. Mom was the navigator and sometimes took a turn at the wheel.

We camped all over the United States and into Canada, stopping at every historical marker, scenic overlook, roadside rest area, and state park along the way. At night, after pitching the tent, we sat around the campfire singing The Wreck of the Old 97, and Down in the Valley, and She Was Some Daisy for a Nineteen Year Old. I lived for those trips.

So the fascination for changing vistas is ingrained. Viking spirit, gypsy soul, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving…I no longer even try to resist. In three days I’ll board Korean Air for another 26 hour flight half way around the world. Excitement ripples in happy waves as I anticipate four more months in Bali.  In the words of the poet, Rumi:

Come, come, whoever you are, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving – it doesn’t matter, ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vow a hundred times. Come, come again, come.

Photo of Tanah Lot, Bali by: gyduvo.blogspot.com

Returning

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Longing
 
It haunts me,
calls gently.
Return, it says.
I don’t have to ask
the knowing is written
in my bones…
the longing
speaks more loudly
than love
or anger
or pain.
Return, it says,
to my green arms
to my heat
to my fragrance
to joy.
Return.
And I will…
soon.
 
This poem needed to be written. It was tight around my heart. I couldn’t put words to it because I didn’t know when. I didn’t know if soon meant weeks, months, or unbearably longer. Today I know. Weeks. I will return to Bali in July, in four weeks. That is just long enough to get a new visa. Just long enough to see friends one more time…just long enough.
 
I have never loved a place before. I’m trying to understand the improbability of it. Why this place? Why half-way around the world from everything I know?
 
 
Of course I explored the question in my discovery writing and the answer rang like truth when the words of it appeared on the page. With truth comes freedom. Freedom allows. And it is all about allowing ‘havingness.’ Havingness is about worthiness. Worthiness is about self-love.
 
There! Did you follow that process? Discovery writing unlocks truth. I love it! I created it and I believe in it. It has informed and transformed my life. And for those of you who have faithfully followed my blog, I am returning. Please come along!
 
 


A Storm, a Flood, or an Optimist?

I’m waiting for the storm. We may get 3 inches of rain tonight. For my friends in Indonesia who read this blog I know that sounds like a non-event. Trust me, in the midwest it means flooding. Unlike Bali, our ground isn’t equipped to absorb all that moisture so quickly. On the other hand, we may not get a drop. The sky can brood and bluster all it wants, but in Minnesota that doesn’t guarantee anything.

So I’m watching the lead-colored bottoms of the clouds with anticipation. It’s a cozy feeling. Intimate. And it can turn to abject terror in moments if the wind begins to rage and trees topple over. I felt inspired to write a quick Haiku:

Clouds form gray mountains

The air waits breathless and still

Nothing else happens.

The storm that never comes is a lot like expecting the worst. I’m a shameless optimist. I always (yes always) anticipate the best to the point of neglecting to prepare for less agreeable alternatives. I have a friend who is the opposite. He always imagines every conceivable disaster and prepares for it, just in case! I tell him he frets enough for both of us. I have another friend who worries but does nothing. I neither worry, nor prepare, just go blissfully on my merry way oblivious to dire circumstances lurking at every turn. As a result I never get sick, never have accidents, never seriously hurt myself, and have an average happiness factor of 9.9 on a scale of 10.

Personality differences are of great interest to me. I didn’t one day decide that I would be an optimist. I just am. I’m sure my friends didn’t set out to behave as they do. They just do. My three daughters are unique and wonderful and very happy, but unlike each other as they could possibly be. Why is that?

Thousands of words have been written about this subject and there are many self-help “how to be happy” books. But if you’re like my worrying friends, its a difficult task. Happiness doesn’t come naturally to them. It’s probably possible only in flashes, like lightening, then quickly followed by an ominous roll of thunder, which I haven’t heard yet tonight but the wind is picking up. I’m going to find a spot on the porch and settle in to watch what may, or may not, happen.

Summer storm approaches

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